Last days of Remembrance
by Odella
Summary: Sam is devastated after Frodo's departure and his life takes on an abrupt change....(Chapter 3 added! - Slash-)
1. Default Chapter

Note: Ok, this was probably my hardest task so far in translating Swedish into English. I was happy with this fic until I translated it (Can we say Lost in translation?) and then it just turned out… messy.   
Oh well, please let me know what you think, I'd really, really appreciate it =)

**The last days of Remembrance**

  
_"I will sing no more, leave my tales unfinished  
bind my tunes and tie my chants  
lock them behind bolts of bones   
to never escape my keep  
For I have no beloved, who can learn and listen  
Only the trees are left to mimic  
The love of birch, the comfort of rowan"_

From "_Mariatta_", the 50th song of _Kalevala_

~

The snowflakes fell to the ground and washed the earth clean from the troubles of yesterday. They were always welcomed by the people of the Shire, for they made all minds a little brighter when the beautiful flakes painted the world in the purest of white; a sparkling contrast to a dark-blue sky. The people smiled where they stood and watched the snow through their windows and they lit another candle before they went to bed to await morning and all of its duties. 

He gasped for breath again. A sick, bitter longing pumped in his veins, throughout his body, made him strong when it fed at least some of his growing anxiety. But when the evening approached with thundering steps, it faded and left him, yet again, alone to face the dread of the night. There was nothing to look forward to. 

The room was in darkness. In the air were week-old remains of ash and smoke, because he had forgotten to rake out the relics of the now dead fire, and he coughed when he felt it burn in his raw throat. Only through the dirty windows shone a faint light from the snow outside, which was far from enough, and even farther from making any difference in the smudgy hole he called home. Sam raised his weary head and looked out through the window; he saw the garden and the sky where the clouds covered the most of the night, and sighed in heavy fatigue. Tears were in his eyes, but not even a vestige of comfort did they bring. He was past comfort, past grief, desire and dread. Everything that remained was the ash of what once had been; the ash of the fire once lit. And then faded. 

He sat in his armchair with his head rested against his chest. His hands clutched the armrests and the leather gave in with a sigh for his strength. If you had seen him where he sat then, next to the window, you would have seen an old man, with his brow narrowed as if in deep and rueful thoughts, and with the grey lips pressed tightly shut to keep something from escaping them. But you would be wrong. Because this was no old man. 

The snow continued to fall, as to welcome the new and bright, but the man interpreted it all as an insult to his sad and sorrowful figure. For he had admitted that a long time ago; to be sad, and that death would soon come and visit him where he lived, if the dust didn't prevent it from doing so, that was. The man would welcome him, put a teakettle on and bring his favourite cups out of the cupboard. "So, Death," He'd say, "How's the business going?" And they would have a good time, maybe even laugh at old days when they had both been unfamiliar with each other's presence; times when the sun still shone into the gardens of Bag End instead of leaving it all to shadows. Sam looked around in the room where he was sitting. The furniture was covered in year-old, almost black dust, and he was greatly dismayed of seeing it in that condition, for it was made of the finest redwood; the same colour as his best winter coat, he remembered fondly. He recalled how he used to love to let his palm and fingers slide over the polished surfaces and leave the smudgy prints of his fingertips to let them tell a story about a boy who had enough time on his hands to walk around and stroke furniture all day. It was the act of leaving something behind that always caught his fancy, even if the trace of him never seemed to linger for that long a-time. He was, after all, only a gardener's son with grimy hands who didn't know better. 

He rose from his chair, or struggled to, more correctly. It was not because of his weight that he fought to abandon the soothing comfort of the chair's cushions, but his skeleton had become weak during the years, disintegrated into powder, and left him frailer than the smallest of infants. He felt his heavy eyelids threatening to fail him now, in the late hour, when his willpower was not what he anticipated it to be. He still wore his white night gown that went all the way down to his ankles and was loose at the belly and the hips; he had not taken it off since he put it on this morning, in the twilight when he always rose if he had been spared from nightmares and a sore stomach. Outside, the snow gathered in drifts and lured him away from reality, summer, away from the laughter and play. Only sleep was left in his hollow and branded landscape, and he was to indulge in it slavishly until he met his last morning.

~

The ground was frozen under the shovel but gave in for the pressure of his foot, and sank slowly under the grass. The earth was cold, but soft under the cover of snow, and he could se the remnants of the dead, decayed worms from the summer's fruitful harvest. _Crops of heaven, indeed_, he thought solemnly and reminded himself to never look at what he dug up from now on. 

"That's alright, Hamson. Just keep going there, will ye."

Hamson Gamgee looked up from his shovel and nodded at the miller, who gave him a light pat on the shoulder. There was still the smell of morning in the air, and the sun shone alert and awake on the blue sky, bright, plump and rosy. Hamson smiled to himself and ruffled his curly hair to chase away all the traces of night that still seemed to linger in mind. It had snowed all through the night and they had been left with no other choice than to wear the boots they had all been provided with, even if they liked it or not; a few inches of snow could freeze your toes off, and they took no chances. Hamson did not question them; for he knew that they knew better of things that was expected of the workers, and he liked to feel appreciated for the job he did. He was welcome in Tightfield, the villagers had heard about him even before he arrived because the name of Gamgee was well known among them for their green fingers and their good, common-hearted sense. And the youngest son's involvement with the quest of the ring was not entirely forgotten neither. Though, some said behind closed doors, that involvement had done more bad than good for the name of Gamgee lately. 

He looked down on his shoes; clumsy leather shoes that squeaked and creaked when he walked in the snow and he had come to dislike the sound so terribly that he thought of throwing them into the lake if he had only got the chance to. But they were warm and kept his little toes from freezing in the dikes, thankfully. He laughed out loud. What a sight that would have been! Get the shovels lads, Hamson Gamgee's toes are stuck in the mud again!

"Where's the merry weather, Hamson?" He spun around and looked right into a pair of dark brown hobbit eyes that shone brightly at him. They belonged to Rudy Stonebeck, a pleasantly copious and friendly hobbit, who was the first Hamson acquainted when arriving to the village almost one year ago. "Just my shoes, and naught else!" He answered and laughed briskly, in which the friend soon joined in. Rudy looked down on his own shoes and smiled, "Oy, they're not very fetching now are they? And they hurt yer ankles too. I almost feel sorry for the men who have to wear things like that day out and day in." Hamson sighed and nodded. "But maybe it's different when you're that tall, ye know, mayhap the shoes are…. Lighter then?"

They stood there for a while and pondered on Hamson's simply expressed theory, until the miller bad them to get started with the digging. So they took their shovels and began, yet again, to prepare the earth for what had been in the minds of many that had some kind of local position to claim that summer. Well, those who saw the possibilities with what could be done, that was. One of the Shire's most beautiful and stabile bridges was to be built here and they knew that they were going to have to work long days and toilsome shifts until the ground was soft and warm instead of as the hardest and coldest of ice. But when it was finished, it was to stand there for the rest of his years, and he would tell anyone who wanted to listen that he, Hamson Gamgee, had been a hand of help in the founding. 

He decided to sit indoors when the miller's wife rang for lunch, because he knew that the daughters of the house were fine pieces to rest one's eyes on while eating, and they all knew how to serve a hungry hobbit-belly when it called for attention. Though Hamson was not young anymore, he still had a youthful look to him that many girls seemed to fancy, even if but only enough to get a kiss behind the barns; a pleasure he had almost grown accustomed to as a strong, good-looking lad many years ago. But he didn't complain now when things were different, he had work. He had a home, and even some money saved. The people treated him well and he liked his new-found friends who were always up for an ale or two at the local Inn. He had a good life, and was looking forward to where it would lead him next. 

The radiant, shining sun and the blue sky seemed to awake the very best within Hamson, for all day long he greeted every single person he met by lifting his cap in a cheerful manner and bow low so that his curls almost touched the ground. He sat down next to Rudy and smiled at the miller's youngest daughter when she handed him a plate. She blushed fiercely under her fringe.   
"Hullo, Rudy."  
"Why hullo there, Ham! I though you were off to Hobbitton?" Rudy said and looked up from his plate.  
"Aren't you off to your old gaffer's and sisters' this Yule? Did ye change yer mind?"  
"No, nothin' like that," Hamson smiled, "It's tomorrow I'm leaving, and not a day sooner." He took a bite of turkey and washed it down with a draught of ale before Rudy's eyes bad him to continue.   
"I'm not sure if Hal will be able to come this year, he's got his hands full in Bywater, though Sam only lives a few steps away, so he'll probably drag his feet down there. But then again…."

The murmur at the table suddenly decreased by the mentioning of Sam's name, and not just a few shy glances were pointed in Hamson's direction at the end of the table where he was sitting. Their ears were pricked in an attempt to not miss anything of importance, for they had all heard a lot, but knew little for sure about the Gamgee brother who now lived alone up at Bag End, with only the ghosts and the great smials for company. It had been an awfully popular subject for many of those who were interested in gossiping and slandering and one would not believe what was said behind locked doors after a few too many ale, when credibility was far from peaked. Most of the rumours never became common knowledge, luckily enough, but a few managed to spread until everyone knew at least something about the urban legend that was Samwise Gamgee. 

"What d'ye mean?" Rudy squinted at him, not entirely unaware of the rumours. But he kept quiet to not offend his friend, for even if he was but a simple worker, he knew that just because enough people believed in a certain rumour, did not mean that it was automatically correct. Hamson shook his head.   
"I don't know…" His eyebrows narrowed in anxiety, cast shadows over his slightly tanned face and he fell in deep thinking for a moment. He chewed the bread slowly and cut deep furrows in the meat with his knife while trying to clear his head from the foggy thoughts.   
"He's changed somehow. He doesn't come by no more, Mari says." He sighed wearily, "Only got time for his books and pictures and won't see none else." Hamson kept quiet then, knowing that if he said anything that was considered just slightly odd, it would reach Bywater and Tuckkborough by midday tomorrow and make the life of his family and friends even worse than before. Sam's life especially. He did not wish to burden his brother with even more trouble and woe, and he reckoned that as his task from now on; to defend Sam, even if the rumours concerning his situation contained a little, but annoying, hint of truth. 

He still saw Sam as that little boy with honey-coloured hair who had run about the hole in the Shire with muddy clothes and more often, a smile playing on his lips. Hamson remembered once when he had found a dead crow under the big oak tree in the garden and how Sam had stopped playing when Hamson had shown it to him. Sam had been almost ten, still a child, but old enough to help his father with chores that craved his full attention and responsibility. But when he saw that dead bird, he simply just stared with his big, green child eyes, tasks long forgotten until his father chided both him and Hamson for their carelessness, and Ham was sent off to bury the bird. Sam had not slept much that night, but showed no signs of the lack of sleep the morning after when a soft voice called for him from the other side of the wide hedge. Hamson stopped chewing for a second when the memory emerged from his head's dusty corners. It was that voice, that soft voice, belonging to a person who Hamson had seen maybe a handful of times since the youngster had moved in, that could set Sam off like a colt in wild gallop.

He rose early the next day, took a long and well-deserved bath in the little tub and watched the sun come up behind the top of the hill. It was a fine day breaking, but the small icicles hanging from the edges of the roof told him that it was going to be colder than it had been for a long time. He combed his hair and started putting the fresh, new, ironed clothes on; A white shirt, brown vest, green jacket. He then positioned in front of the mirror and paced back and forth a few minutes to practice his carriage with his hands clasped behind his back as a real gentlehobbit. Hamson laughed at the idea, and proceeded with his packing; there were the leaves and his pipe, the small Yule gifts for his sisters; A brush for Marigold, a beautiful brooch for May shaped as a dandelion, and a hairslide for Daisy to gather her long locks in. And then he put his coat on and went to say goodbye to Rudy. 

"I'll be back in two weeks," he said and hugged the other hobbit, who blushed intensely and started to examine the ground under his feet, maybe a little too carefully than what was considered casual.

There was a chilly and somehow vigour freshness in the air that he had not felt or smelled in a long time, and he inhaled the sharp scent of morning and said his goodbye to the miller in standard fashion. And then he discerned the faint silhouette of a wagon that came rolling down the hill, and he squinted at the growing sun, that appeared to be almost glowing in the sky. He sat up, introduced himself to the driver and they were off. And the farther down the road they got, the larger the longing he felt in his heart seemed and sometimes he even thought he saw a blond forelock amongst the trees, hiding from his gaze, and to disappear almost immediately.

~

He let his hand slide over the smooth surface of the wardrobe door before he opened it cautiously as if he imagined the world's greatest dangers and horrors inside, waiting for him underneath shirts, linens and underwear. He lifted up one of the shirts and held it to the single candle, firmly placed on the nightstand. The white fabric seemed to shine with a strange, ethereal heat in the dull light that the candle emitted, and he inspected it closely, tracing his fingers over the worn cloth, tasting it with his fingertips. The shirt had still no holes in it, because Sam had strewn out a whole bag with mothballs in the wardrobe to ready and protect the clothes during the winter, and he thanked himself for remembering that now. He lowered his hands, clutched the bone-white fabric that distinguished almost painfully against his grey skin. And then he brought it to his face and let the shirt caress his cheek; _it still smelled of him, after all,_ and he did not care if it was his rather unbalanced mind that played him a trick and made his sense of smell somewhat unreliable. It helped him in the mornings, made him swing his legs over the edge of the bed and shake the rest if the night out of his eyes and thoughts, and begin a new day. 

He saw Frodo before himself, dressed in stainless white with the ebony-coloured curls resting behind his ears, and with his eyes shrouded by the sooty lashes. It was a memory that comforted and captivated him, as well as tormented him, for it was the only sight left when the night arrived. It was the only thing that gave him some kind of consolation, and he had come to cherish it higher than all other visions that invaded his mind late at night when most of them were of ill-natured specimen. He smelled the musk and damp scent of skin, blended with the mothballs' strong perfume and he pressed it to his chest and held it there. The collar was still a little dirty at the base, because he had not dared washing it more than once or twice since Rosie had left him. He was scared that the shirt would somehow lose what reminded him of Frodo, which he dreaded would happen sooner or later, despite all of his efforts and whether he wished it or not. That Frodo was destined to be nothing but a sweet memory, which he would fight to recall and bring out of the shadows of his dusty head. Or maybe some day he would even try to escape it.

After Sam had returned from the grey havens, and was home again safe and sound, he had asked Rose if he could use Frodo's bedroom to sleep in, only a few days a month to get used to the idea of not having his friend around. Rosie, who had sought for a way to make it easier for Sam, welcomed the suggestion and agreed that Sam would sleep alone in the master bedroom for some time. Those days soon became weeks; weeks became months until he finally just lay there in bed, his back against the window, like a tree with iron roots that refused to ease their hold. He came out in time for dinner and supper in the beginning, but lost his strength and appetite after a while to even perform this simple task, and Rose's patience gradually began to give out. Sam did not want any company, save for Eleanor, but one late night when moon was nowhere to be seen, she left the room crying out of disappointment because of her father's harsh words. The door was, and remained closed after that incident, sometimes even locked except for when Rosie left a tray with his dinner portion at the threshold. He used to put all the candles out while hearing his wife kissing Eleanor goodnight in the other end of the smial, and then crawl in under the covers and wish an early death upon his body before he fell in an unpleasant, but deep sleep. 

It had not always been like this. He had not always been filled with a longing so strong that it broke his bones and tore the skin of his body, something that brought him to shadow, let his heart burn with insatiable grief. The garden stood now dismal and neglected; the rotten apples covered the ground, a few of the walls and most of the windows after a night when the children had entertained themselves with plucking all of the fruits from the trees, and then carried on to throw them on the exteriors of Bag End when they thought he was asleep. But he had heard every single strike, every smacking, thumping sound when the overripe apples hit the walls; he had lain in agony under the bed with the covers wrapped tightly around his body, and shivered as if he had caught a cold or such. When the morning came, he cast a last glance at his abandoned garden and then drew the heavy drapes across the window.   
  
Sam slid a hand over his belly, over his chest, down his hip and below that, closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander to a place and a time when reality was not as cruel as late. He then undressed until he was clad in nothing but his own skin and lay down between the soft but dirty sheets again, and waited for Sleep and Dreams to take him. 

There was only dusk. Total, pitch-black darkness that pulled him, forced his legs to walk until he could no longer stand, and when he finally fell, it continued to drag him forward. He crawled on his knees and hands; it was something he searched for, something he had lost. He started digging frantically in the black soil; _he must find it, or all would be lost!_ And suddenly, something glimmered weakly under his sullied fingers. Only one mere glimpse could set the sky on fire; he recalled saying once when he had not been alone in his wanderings, when he still had someone by his side who listened and who had been able to answer him. He scratched and scraped his nails in the mud, dug until he could almost reach the glare, the burning circle. How he longed to have it in his hands, to feel the smooth ring of gold against his shaking fingers and the thought was more exciting than the finest of music, more passionate than a muffled cry of sweet bliss, more alluring than the soft caress of a familiar hand. And when he brushed the final layer off that covered what he had found, it was as if he had exposed his very soul to the flames, set fire to his clothes that were to protect him, for the light began to scratch and claw at him down to the hollows of his belly and chest. And then it filled him, engraved on his memory and blinded him for all else.

He woke up panting, sweating and with his heart thumping somewhere in his body he could not make out, the sound was overwhelming. Outside, the snow fell as silently as when he had gone to bed earlier that night, and the moon shone ice cold over the treetops. He lay down when his heart had calmed down a fraction, but he could not sleep with the very vivid image of the burning ring still fresh in his mind when he closed his eyes. Finally, he rose, shuffled across the floor and made his way to the hallway by using the walls for support. He had not dreamt of the ring in several months, those thoughts did not easily enter Sam Gamgee's mind, but it was the same feeling of devastation that had haunted him in the dark lands, that now crept through his old body and tore at his protection shields. It transformed him into a pitiful creature with the ring's seducing whisper drumming and hammering in his ears, who chose to escape the piercing rays of the sun for several days ahead. It scared him to tears at times, but mostly to anger and rage for losing control of his own being, his own life. His thoughts went in the darkest nights to Gollum and his cave below the earth, and he always asked himself the same question; _Will I also make for rock and gravel when the burden becomes too heavy to bear?_

Sam staggered out into the kitchen and dropped down on one of the chairs. His head spun and the nausea grew in his belly; he did not even know if it was because of the dream or the fact that he had not eaten anything since lunch. He was cold in his thin night gown and he shivered involuntarily, but he quickly fought the thought of going back to bed, for even if the dreams of fire marred him deeply inside; they were not the ones he feared the most. Only once before had he dreamt of finding Frodo dead, beaten and bruised on top of a mountain cliff. His chest heaved and shook when he recalled the dream of Frodo's battered body, his pale face and the scarlet lips, whose colour reminded him of the spring roses he had grown many years ago when he had still been just a bairn.

He poured a mug of water and forced himself to drink it, though it remained stagnated in his throat for a while. But it was cold and tasted good, for he never forgot to fetch fresh water from the well, even if it rained or snowed outside. He used to sneak out early in the mornings and late in the evenings to fill the water basin and place it next to the kitchen hearth (Not that it would make any difference, considering that the fire was hardly ever lit, but the routine eased his mind for a little while, and for that he was grateful). Sam drank another full mug and then put it down in the stone sink along with the rest of the dishes. He was still trembling violently, and figured that maybe a bite of food would help his tense nerves. And so he decided; he raked the coals of the dead fire out of the hearth, piled a new stack of dry logs in their wake and then persuaded to light them, using only the steel and knife Bilbo had once given Frodo, and then left to Sam. It was a thick and fine set of steel, with a good grip that seated nicely in his hand and the knife was as sharp and stainless as the mightiest of swords, or so he imagined. After a few minutes, the fire crackled in the fireplace and the knife glimmered in Sam's hand where it lay. He twisted and turned it to get a better view in the new light, and noticed in astonishment the fire's red and yellow flames reflect in the polished blade. _So beautiful,_ he thought, _As if made of silver and mirror glass._

The kitchen heated up almost immediately, as if it had missed the warmth so badly that it now made the greatest effort in welcoming it back. A thin film of steam coated the tiny kitchen windows and once in a while, large balls of ashes from the fire set off, rolled over the kitchen floor and in under the chairs and table. Sam gripped the handle of the knife and brought the sharp edge to his fingertip; the coldness tickled his skin and he smiled at the almost invigorating feeling. All he wished for was peace and silence, to freeze to death among wolves and goblins, to feel the slow beatings of his heart until he was no more. Too long had he wandered now, too long to keep hope alive, too long to understand that he did not want anyone to come and rescue him any longer, he was tired of walking, thinking, sleeping, eating. To light fires, to hide from apple-throwing children, to go to the market to hear them whisper behind his back and….

When they mentioned Frodo, when they took his name in their mouths, spat it out as if he had been nothing but a felon, a malicious beggar who had done something terrible, he could not stand it anymore. He had realised then that they would never see the ringbearer, with sword in hand protect what he cherished and held dear, never hear his voice, high and prominent, above everything else and never behold his eyes glowing with so much fear, pride and hope. Sam had turned around to confront the person who had spoken of Frodo in such a way, but he had soon felt the fatigue crush the little courage he had manage to muster, and had only glanced wearily at the people who pretended to not see him. He had pulled the hood down over his head and face again, and walked away, leaning on his wooden stick like a very old and troubled man. 

He gave a start when the edge of the knife scratched his fingertip and he quickly pulled the blade from the finger just in time to see a single drop of blood fall to the floor. Sam gasped at the sudden pain but was surprised of how excited, yes, almost giddy it made him feel. Sure, he had cut his finger before, but it was different when the damage was because of his own doings. The fire crackled again when he was just about to inspect the finger closer, and when he in a reflex lifted his head to look at the hearth, he suddenly noticed that there was something outside, looking in through the window. Something was looking at him.

"Oy there!" he shouted when he stepped closer, but the shape only flickered for a split second and disappeared into the growing dark. Sam's heart beat hard, he threw the window open and called out into the night: "Hallo! Is anyone out there?" Only the crows answered him with their dry croaks and the ghostlike flapping of their wings; some of them were still feasting on the fetid apples that lay strewn about the garden. The land that met him was covered in clean white and when he looked down at the ground underneath the window, he saw snow and the remains of an old rose-bush, but not a single footstep, not a trace, nothing. The wind blew strong and fearless through the kitchen and threatened to put out the meagre fire that sparkled and writhed to escape the cold air. Sam was shaking and shivering as the wind swept against his body; a night gown was not really the optimal choice of clothing when one was to stand in a window in the middle of the winter, but all such thoughts had fled for the moment. He saw the black contours of one of the old pine trees that stood a bit further down the hill, and then he lifted his gaze. _Had it been? It couldn't have…_But the shape had had the same ice blue stare as… he was unable to finish his trail of thoughts, they tore at him and made the void in his stomach even bigger, so big that he thought it would eat him whole. He felt numb, cold. Tired as if he had just fought the evil master himself and just barely been left alive. 

It was when Sam stood there, and was just about to close the window again, that he saw something very tiny gleam behind a tree trunk. He gripped the windowsill and struggled to see something in the dark night. It may have been a last snowflake, or a star's simple night wish, but in his recollection remained only one thing in that moment; the very thing that made him jump out through the open window and down on the snow clad ground: _Follow it, even if it so will kill you. _

~

.... To be continued.....


	2. Chapter 2

~

  
The Shire was, and always had been, a swarm of voices and faces in all kinds of shapes, forms and appearances, and Hamson greeted them when he came bumping down the road that led to the marketplace; it was as if he had never left home by the sound and sight of it. There was to be a Yule fair in a few days, and most people were anxious to see if this years' was to top the last one, which it of course always did, every year as far back as Hamson could remember, but it was still a reason for the local craftsmen to show their skills. There were already a few booths up; one where the annual "Guess the ham" contest was to be held, where one guessed how many pounds the biggest of butcher Boffins' pigs weighed and the one guessed the right amount got a very special price, often a cag of ale for the men and something else for the women (Though a few of the women could not imagine a better price and wrote their husbands' name on the vote). Last year's contest caused somewhat of an uproar though, when the butcher himself had drunk the whole cag of very desirable ale from Bree, run all the way to the Bywater pool and somehow, fallen into it head first, with his clothes still on and managed to scare half of the people in the village to death when they mistook him for a lake monster because of all his waving and screaming. 

The wagon turned and stopped in front of the Inn, where Folco, Fosco and Olo Hamwich stood waiting for their ponies to be saddled and readied, all three almost equally dressed, though with individual features and details so that one was able to tell the difference between them without having to ask half the Shire. They would often play pranks with their mother when they were children, and constantly switched shirts and names and drove her to the edge of insanity more than once, much to the villagers' amuse. Hamson waved to them and they cheered and shouted his name when they saw who he was; he could not have had a better reception if he had so been King Elessar himself, Hamson thought cheerfully. There was also the once notorious skirt chaser Fredegar Burrows, arm in arm with his lovely wife Lily, who was expecting their first child. She was dressed in a bright, yellow dress that brought out the shape of her growing belly and she seemed to sparkle where she walked through the crowd, and Hamson spotted them just in time to see Fredegar sneak a kiss from his wife when he thought no one watched them. 

He had not spoken to her, or Fredegar, since Hamson had broken his and Lily's engagement three years ago when he was still young enough to get married and create a family with whom he thought was the only one who responded to his affection, but now she just seemed like a distant memory. He watched her when she leaned in to her husband's kiss and touch, and she laughed when he put her hand around her waist. He did not know for sure why he had left her, but he had found her obnoxious after a while and thought that the only reason for their engagement was that she craved his full attention, all days and all hours, which he could not give her. Not when his gaffer had become ill and needed his help; not when Marigold was getting married and not when Halfred was moving to the Northfarthing, the other end of the shire. So when he had gotten the offer from Tightfield, it had been a legitimate, though not a very considerate excuse for him to leave. Hamson could not take his eyes of her; she was so beautiful in her current state and a part of him, deeply hidden, wished for a second that it had been he who kissed and caressed her cheek instead of Fredegar. 

But the almost trance-like moment fled, and he turned to thank the driver for the ride. He then buttoned his coat all the way up to escape the icy winds, and jumped down from the wagon and on to the ground. It was not even four o'clock, and the sun was already about to set behind the trees to leave the world a little bit colder, a little bit darker. He grabbed his bag and slowly started walking through the almost impenetrable crowd, where most of the people were too busy making errands to see who the brown-haired, broad chested hobbit was, though he did not mind it; quite the opposite as a matter of fact. He continued walking and felt almost like he was watching something he was not supposed to watch; his friends performing their ordinary and everyday tasks, perfectly unaware of his presence. Their body language was different somehow; it sang of experience, routine, but also of content with the small things such as baking a nice piece of bread or buying a mug of ale to moisten a dry throat. He smiled fondly. Nothing could make him more welcome than this: everyday life in his home village. It was a special feeling, an atmosphere of renewal when the holiday approached, and they all did their best to make it unique in every single way.

The air was still cold, and he shivered when the biting wind swept through all his layers of clothing and touched his skin like a hand made of ice. 

"Hamson Gamgee!" a voice suddenly exclaimed from behind, "How glad I am to see your nose back in Hobbitton!" 

Hamson turned around and his eyes fell instantly on the plump, reddish face that greeted him, and the smile that almost went from ear to ear. He smiled back and shook the hand that was directed at him, but that was obviously not enough for the man, who caught Hamson in a fond embrace, much to his surprise, but not to his dismay. 

"Mr Hilldweller…" Hamson panted and the apple-cheeked man thumped him on the back. "A cold day, isn't it?" 

Orgulas Hilldweller laughed briskly at the comment and gave his friend another hug, as if to emphasize his affection. He was the owner of the new Inn, which Hamson had helped rebuilding after the old one had burned down two summers ago when it had not rained for weeks and the heat had been unbearable. Orgulas himself had participated in the reconstruction, and he had gained a lot of respect for the young sons of the Shire, who had toiled and struggled to finish his establishment by winter last year; a task they had also accomplished though it was more because of mere luck than plan. Orgulas had promised ever since, that those who had helped him in the construction were to get free accommodation at the new Inn if they so needed, whenever they needed it, and that was a gift rarely rejected when the cold of winter swept through the Shire. 

They remained there for a while to talk about this and that; about Hamson's work, both of their families and about the apple farm that was to be built in early spring next year in Laketown, if everything went as planned. 

"The Shire is alive in the spring; everything blooms and becomes sweeter than ever before. And we all have that brother of yours to thank," he said and winked. 

Orgulas was half a foot taller than Hamson and had fists as big as paddles, though he never used them for much more than pouring pints, he always assured. Some said that he had a few drops of Stoor-blood floating in him from his father's side of the family because of his sturdily built body and his low, almost rumbling voice. He was from a fairly noble family, and had been taught manners and eloquence at an early age; something that he was not all too fond of and would rather speak and act as he pleased instead of the correct and proper way for an upper-class hobbit, which had made him more than popular among the peasants and farmers. 

Hamson looked away and nodded solemnly, but inside he felt irresolute and did not really know what to respond to such a question. Many chose to forget or ignore Sam's achievements and contributions to the landscapes, and saw what he had come to be instead; a loner, a victim of rumours and gossip, hiding behind the safe walls of Bag End. One who would not even speak to his sister, nor him, when they had tried to. Why should he bother defending him? Why reprimand those who spoke of him; Sam was no child anymore, surely he was able to defend himself? Hamson sighed, for he knew that a part of him did not want to stand up against rumours and accusations any longer, he was tired of always having to distance himself from his friends when tongues slipped and all promises of privacy and respect were broken. And for what? 

"I guess so," he said after a moment of thought and looked up at Orgulas again, whose smile had began to sink a bit, "Before he stopped giving a fly about plants and roses, that is, and started – "

"Let's go elsewhere and talk, alright?" Orgulas suddenly interrupted and looked around suspiciously. If Hamson did not know better, he could swear that he saw a faint gleam of fright in Orgulas eyes when he led them off to the Inn.

"I've got myself twenty cags of fresh and tasty ale. All the way from the Southfarthing, mind you!"

The heat from the fire stroke his face when he stepped into the little room and he felt how all his frosty features seemed to thaw by the second. A bed with a white coverlet stood at the far end of the room; it looked tempting in Hamson's eyes after his long trip, but it was not time to hit the sack just yet. Orgulas shut the door behind him and shook the snow off his feet at the door. Then he took his coat off and hung it over the back of a chair placed in front of the hearth, where a fire was already lit, and sat down with a sigh. Through a little, but round window they could see the sun setting, the horizon sparkling of red and yellow, and the faint gleam of moonlight rising in the opposite end. Hamson rubbed his hands together and seated himself on the chair next to Orgulas, with the green woollen jacket still on. The snow had already melted from his feet and he ruffled his hair to get the little flakes out of his cold ears. 

"The winds seem almost inhuman this year," Orgulas hummed and took his pipe out of his pocket. "Makes ye wonder where they might come from." 

Hamson looked into the fire where it crackled and rummaged, lost in his own thoughts. His mind had returned to Sam once again, it did not matter how much he tried to not think of it, it was something that pulled at him, forced him to solve a problem he did not even recognise. Orgulas cleared his throat and Hamson met his gaze. 

"I'm sorry, there's been a lot to think about just now." Orgulas continued stuffing his pipe and took one of the sticks that lay in the fire to light the leaves with. And then he puffed at it, and a cloud of grey smoke left his mouth and ascended to the ceiling. 

"Something in particular?" 

Hamson nodded slowly and the curls fell around his face while watching the fire's battle in awe and amazement. 

"Sam," He whispered almost inaudible in the room where the shadows danced over the walls like clumsy, inept figures, painted by children. Orgulas took another drag at his pipe and blew the smoke out through his nose. 

"You're worried?"

"Ever since Rosie left him, he's refused to speak to me. I was here a few months ago and knocked on to the door, but he wouldn't answer." Orgulas was silent and Hamson could see the black smudges from the smoke on his cheeks when he chewed on the tip of the pipe. 

"So yes, I'm worrying. When he came home from the… journey, he was a hero," He sighed and stroke the hair from his face, "But people don't want naught to do with him nowadays." 

There was a loud knock on the door, and Orgulas got up to see who it was. The door opened with a loud, creaking sound that made the headache Hamson had sensed earlier pulsate with renewed power in his poor head. Orgulas disappeared for a moment and returned smiling, with an apron tied around his belly as if he had been a waitress instead of a respectable hobbit and owner of the Inn, and with a fully loaded tray in his hands. He shut the door using his foot and put the tray with ale and a bite of food for Hamson on the little round table between the chairs.

"A mug of Ale or two suits every mood!" Orgulas laughed and they drank and saluted the arrival of winter. The ale tasted wonderful to a tired traveller as Hamson, and he smacked his lips after the first mouthful; his earlier thoughts dropped for a second. 

"Oh, 'Tis prime, Orgulas," He took another zip, "Just like at the old Green dragon."

They sang and drank and laughed to the fire's tune, until Hamson started to feel very, very tired. So tired that he almost fell asleep during Orgulas story about his son's courting of a young farmer's lass, and his voice's melodic rhythm pulsed in his weary ears. And then he began to sing a very peculiar song, that reminded him of the old hymns once sung by the people of the mountains, who were spotted once in a while in the old forests. 

"If I'm not mistaken, or if me ears aren't full of snow…." Hamson straightened in the chair and hiccuped, "I'd think that it was one of them elvish songs you're singing, Orgulas Hilldweller. You're not coming down with a flu, are ye?" Orgulas chuckled and raised his eyebrows secretively. His red face had gotten an even redder tone, and he looked like a big and curly-haired strawberry in front of the fire, where he was sat with his pipe and in his apron that he had forgotten to take off.

"Not at all, Mr Gamgee, not at all. I think it was the master of Buckland who sang it for us one night at the old Dragon." He smiled at the memory and knocked the pipe upon the tabletop. 

"Well go on, I like it," Hamson encouraged. 

"That's the only one I know, though." Orgulas answered and rested his shoulders against the back of the chair, "He was so drunk that he almost fell of the table when he was to sing it and his friends had to carry him home afterwards." 

"The master of Buckland? That Meriadoc fellow?" 

"That's the one. He also kissed Esmeralda Bramblethorn right on the lips and then made the Thain apologise for his friend's behaviour; a real rascal that Brandybuck." Orgulas laughed, but Hamson stared at him as if he had grown a second head overnight.

"Are you telling me that both the master of Buckland and the Thain were guests at the Dragon, got blind drunk and sang hymns of the fair folk? I think you've been drinking too much of your own ale, Orgulas, me friend."

"Calm down, Ham. You've been away for a long time." 

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Hamson almost shouted and stared angrily at Orgulas. He did not need this; he knew that he was welcome in Hobbitton, he was no outsider, even though he had been away for a while. He was born on this land, he had been raised here and knew every little path, every rock and pebble, every straw of grass. 

"Just that you know little about things that are new for us, and that might seem odd or unusual." And then he put his pipe in his mouth again and resentfully kept silence. 

"I think I see where this is going, I don't need to hear it from you." Hamson got up from the chair and prepared to leave; he grabbed his bag and made for the door when he heard Orgulas sigh behind him.

"Ham," he said and Hamson stopped in his tracks, "Sit down again, I wasn't finished. I'm sorry."

The red cheeked man creased his brow and lowered his gaze when Hamson turned around slowly to look at him. And then he crossed the floor and sat down on his chair again, waiting patiently. 

"You know I like Samwise." Hamson nodded, "He's done a lot to benefit Hobbitton, and the rest of the Shire as well, whatever they might say. The gardens have never been so pretty, and the harvests were perfect this fall." He paused and took a deep breath as if to brace himself for what he was going to say.

"Your Sam was there that night, at the old Dragon. Along with Frodo Baggins, of course. There was a whole lot of whispering when they came shuffling through the door, both dressed in grey cloaks like, almost s'if they were trying to disguise themselves." 

Hamson noticed that Orgulas voice was filled with dread and unwillingness, he spoke quickly and thoughtfully, and every word appeared to have been chosen with care, which was unusual comparing to how he usually talked. 

"They ordered ale and looked cheerful, but that Baggins seemed… weary, almost sad. He was gaunt and pale and kept by Sam's side the whole night, not leaving even to get himself a mug." Orgulas cleared his throat, "Not that it matters –"

"Has this story got a point?" Hamson hissed, every word cut off sharp and he lifted his gaze to look at Orgulas, who looked, if not scared, than at least uncomfortable, to tell from his narrowed brow. 

"Anyway, I was to serve them their ales, and Brando was going on and on about how queer they looked in those grey cloaks and Mr Meriadoc in his armour. So I told him that he oughtn't speak like that if he was fond of his ears, since that blade of Mr. Merry's looked sharp indeed."

Orgulas shifted in his chair, "He kept quiet for a moment then until he came back from their table to refill their mugs, pink and all flustered like. He kept rambling about 'Mad Baggins' and that's when I started to go really angry with him. 'Brando,' I said, 'The lad looks nothing but tired and ill, so get that fat head of yours out of your arse before I make you so!'"

In ordinary cases, Hamson would have choked on his ale and laughed the imaginary sight of Brando Grubb's astonished face and his incoherent mumbling, but not this time. Hamson sat with his eyes closed, his mouth shut and his arms crossed across his chest, as if he had been in deep sleep. 

"And what of it?" he then whispered, voice ragged and husky, "Frodo Baggins was a loon, a fool. My brother liked him for some reason, but I don't see why I should be grateful for you defending him just because of that?"

Frodo Baggins had always been a subject not willingly discussed by the Gamgee family, there was always some insecurity and mystery surrounding the name of the former master of Bag End. Not that they did not know anything about him; Oh no, they were all aware of the connection between both families, and even how odd it might be, the Gamgees were no liars. Many dismissed the relationship to be nothing but a gardener's loyalty towards his master, and that was also what the official belief was. But they had all witnessed the drastic change in the ringbearers personalities; they had become withdrawn, almost shy. Sometimes they were seen at the annual fairs, but those occations were rare, and did not do much for their, or their families reputation. 

Hamson sat there and tried to recall the youngster's face, he had had brown, almost black hair and…. Blue eyes? Yes, that was it. Blue. The memories were few, foggy, and did not seem very plausible to actually have occurred, but he had a faint memory of Sam's fifteenth birthday and Frodo Baggins in a green vest, dancing and laughing the night away. The spring had come early that year and the girls were dressed in bright colours with dark ribbons; fair to look at and far too easy to fall in love with. Though something told him that it was not really the girls that caught Mr. Frodo Baggin's interest. 

"I know you're protective of Sam, but hear me out, Hamson," he assured calmly. 

"I couldn't care less," Hamson answered, "He can see to his own now, it's not up to me anymore."

Orgulas grunted, "I see," he said, nodding to himself. 

He had been nervous that night when he had walked across the floor towards the table at the dark end of the room, with a candle and two mugs of ale in his hands. He had only been a helper then, left to serve and take orders, though he could also easily let his eyes wander and no one ever noticed, something that was quite impossible now when he was busy making sure his guests were taken care of properly. He had put the mugs down on the table and replaced the burned down candle with a new one, and lit it carefully. The two hobbits had been sitting in complete silence, and Orgulas could not help but noticing the strong arm firmly placed around the slim Baggins' waist. He looked up to ask a question, but only gaped when he laid his eyes on the empty, gaping hole between Frodo's index and little finger, and a shiver had gone down his spine. He looked so miserable; his eyes were watery and had lost much of the colour they once had, and Orgulas just felt a deep sadness when he watched the dark-haired hobbit. It was like watching a flower fading and diminish before his very eyes, like a river that had seized its flow. He was almost beautiful in his grief, though Orgulas would never admit it to himself or to anyone else for that matter. Those seconds had passed painfully slow, and he had literally forced himself to look away when that blue stare searched in his direction. And then a hand cradled the numb and injured fingers and the hollowness between two of them, and Frodo had turned to his friend again, who gave him a look full of such intimacy that Orgulas had scampered off, flushed like an innocent maiden.

"Well, if you'll excuse me master Gamgee…" He said and rose from his chair, "I have to greet my other guests arriving tonight, I'm sure you understand." 

"Of course, 'Twas nice talking to you, Orgulas," he said and headed for the bed. The coverlet was soft in his palm as he threw it back, and he laid down in his traveller's clothes, too tired to bother preparing for the night. 

The moon was hidden behind streaks of dark clouds, but one could still see the dim aura of light that shone through; like a candle behind a wall made of rain. Through the little window, Hamson watched the clouds drift pass in their quest around the world, and he felt the fatigue claim him and make him ready for sleep. Orgulas opened the quirking door, but remained on the threshold with his hand on the knob.

"Ham, do you know how I was able to build all this in the first place?" 

Hamson shook his head without even looking at him.

"When I left the Inn that night, there was someone who stopped me in the middle of the road, asking for my name and my business. I couldn't see who it was because a grey hood was covering his face, but he almost looked like one of them rangers, though he was normal-sized and I thought I recognised him somewhere in the back of my head." Orgulas looked distant where he stood, his robust hobbit frame taking up the entire doorframe. 

"I answered him and he handed me a heavy pouch full of what I thought was just rocks and sand, and then he walked away with that strange grey cloak draped over his shoulders. Odd enough if it hadn't been for one thing. The pouch was filled with silver coins."

Orgulas smiled when Hamson did not answer, and shut the door to leave the sleeping hobbit at peace. And maybe tomorrow, he would awake, refreshed and ready. And maybe then, he would recall his dream that night. A dream of silver, water and a hooded creature riding on the wind to the edge of the skies. 

~

He was running through the forest, stumbling upon rocks cold as ice that tore and scratched his feet. The branches seemed to reach for him, fixed in the very foundations of the earth, and fall him to the ground. But he just kept running, for he had seldom felt so alive, as if he had inhaled too much perfume or eaten too much of the strawberries brought to him from his own land. He just ran, fast, all fatigue and weariness had left his body and had been replaced with something invisible that gave him strength to penetrate the darkness in the forest that fell around him like a thick, terrifying mist. The trees were only dark shadows, bordering on his field of vision but did not hinder him to pass.

Sam stopped and looked around in the dead dark of night. He could feel the bitter taste of metal in his mouth as the blood and the bile gathered in his throat and mouth; the pulse beat and pounded in his poor head so hard that he thought his eyes would leave their sockets any second. The snow did not feel like snow under his sore feet; more like burning needles that crawled up his legs and groin, numbed him and made him shake like a leaf in a savage wind. He felt naked where he stood, among tall, black trunks that seemed to gather in bunch to either suffocate or attack him, Sam thought frightened and rubbed his burning eyes. The sweat was already cooling on his back and the cold was so intense that it paralysed his limbs and he wondered in a moment of panic if this was how he was going to end? Was this the final straw, in the middle of the forest, clad in nothing but a night gown? 

The wind ravaged his skin and he cursed himself for not bothering with hood and cloak when he had left, head over heels, in search after something he did not even know. But, he asked, did I care for protection and shelter when I searched for him once before? Would it matter if I wore nothing but a string of clothing if I knew whom I was searching for? He clutched at his heart and bowed his head low, as if in tears or a sudden act of honour to whatever he was going to follow. Or what was going to follow him to the point where he could not tell dreams from reality. He started moving the blocks of ice that once had been his feet again and did not notice when his gown was torn into shreds against the claw-like branches; he kept on going, incited by the trees' soft whispers of death and silence, into the world covered in dust and snow. 

Were there places out here that were as vivid as the ones he imagined? That were as real as the rest of his fantasies? Sometimes he could not separate memory from fantasy, and he did not put much effort in it since he did not mind it; the fantasies were like the purer form of reality, something he fought to preserve and improve. It gave him full power, he could change them into something that suited him better than the ragged reality he had stopped believing in a long time ago. His memory was fading rapidly, and soon all that he loved would become fragments, like pieces of burned paper. 

He soon reached the old river where he had bathed and fished for perch with his brothers as a child. It rippled soothingly and swept the snow from the banks, it was still not frozen even though the latest days had been the coldest in several years. The children were just going to have to wait a bit longer with the skating and ice fishing, Sam thought and smiled. He looked up at the dark treetops that discerned against the deep blue sky like soldiers, like strong and frightening giants. The moon lit up his figure and his shadow fell over the landscape as if he had been one of the greatest; that elven king he had once dreamt of, with stars in his hair and silver in his eyes. A prince of the old age, searching for something a little bit better than what he had been blessed with. As the dark forest surrounded him, the light he had seen from his kitchen window now seemed to have been more like a wishful thought that his mind created for him to pursue, but strangely enough, he did not really care. His feet ached, but he smiled at the moon's luminous face and raised his hands as to embrace someone precious to him. It was bliss to stand there, overcome by gratitude for not having anything to lose anymore. He had snow in his hair, and the small flakes glittered like petals of diamond in his blond locks. A whirlwind swept through the trees and made them dance of joy, for this was his moment now, he could feel it deep down in his belly. This was his time. To save his soul from further torment, to kill the force that ate within him, to clear his mind from wishes far from possible. 

A little splashing sound that did not resonate the river's natural melody brought Sam out of his thoughts and he turned around and peered out over the water and along the brink, but there was nothing that could have created the sound. There were a few bushes dipping their naked limbs in the water, but they were too small to make any sound at all. The surface moved restlessly before him, it was a body of water so reckless that it could outwait people, land and nature itself, but still flowed as smooth and graceful as the finest of linen.

Sam turned again to face the trees; he did not like to have his back against them. They were closing in on him, making it hard to breathe. His head was spinning, his lungs felt like rocks in his chest and his eyes started watering because of the lack of air. The trees were slowly going to choke him if he was to stand here long enough, he could hear it in the way they were whispering among themselves; intoxicatingly, angrily, delirious with held back hatred. But then there was that sound again; like when pebbles are thrown into the water, and he spun around slowly, weighed down by the state of his body.

The first thing his eyes apprehended was a little, white figure, sitting on the opposite brink of the river. It crouched down as if in sleep, and Sam blinked to try focusing, but to no use; the figure was too far away and the place was too dark to even get a decent image of the little hunched back shape. And then, it started moving, raised what Sam recognised to be two white hands, and then dipped them into the water, as to drink of it. When Sam's eyes had gotten used to the light, he could discern the dark, indistinct features of a head, and a pale, almost radiant face in the midst of all darkness. And then there was a scent, an alluring taste in the air, like honey and sugar, and Sam inhaled deeply to savour it, and the creature flickered like a candle in a storm. The indigo-coloured curls were carried by the wind and Sam felt his heart race at the sight of it; this was the vision he had dreamt of before, when he still honoured his desires and believed in them ungrudgingly. He clasped his hands and just stared, for there was little else to do. 

The hands moved back and forth in the water, and the drops fell like gold from his long fingers when he seized his movements to look at Sam, who was too terrified, to awe-struck to move. He was dressed in white, just like Sam, in something that resembled those weaves the elves used to wear, and the robe fell around his feet and sides and on to the ground when he rose from his kneeling position. And then he simply turned, walked into the forest until Sam could only see a faded, but glimmering flame left of the creature. Maybe it was the way the shape moved that suddenly made Sam take a step forward in the cold moss that covered the bank, for he knew that walk, that easy sway of hips, that body, that hair and that smell. He had cradled those hands, he had kissed that face, and he had looked into those eyes and felt the grip of the world slip and stumble and freeze to burning ice. 

~ 

He was sitting on his knees. The eyes never left the ground and the sleek hands worked hurriedly with the shirt buttons to slide the garment off his body a second later as if it had been the most natural thing in the world. Pale skin met his eyes, and Sam watched him fascinated when the slim fingers tugged at the waistband and pulled the trousers down over his hips, sticking out like on a very young child. He paused when he reached his thighs, and wriggled and lifted to get the trousers off completely. And then he folded them neatly and laid them down on the ground next to him. 

_Is this he?_ He thought, _Is this as far as one can come without stirring, without apologising, without losing control entirely?_ Sam shifted on the ground, felt the thick tension in the air and followed Frodo's every shaking movement before him. _He wants to show me everything_. Frodo slipped the linens off quickly and broke his former act of slowness, and cast them aside.

They had never lain together before. Only a few kisses had been shared, a few embraces of passion and lust when they were alone under the fair trees of Lórien. But never without clothes and always in mind that their comrades could catch them at any time, which often led to an abrupt end of their sharing of affection. More than once had they been interrupted by an elf's low voice, calling them for the evening meal, and they would always react in the same way; by blushing, brushing their clothes off and not meeting the other's gaze during the entire meal. And then Pippin would ask why they had leaves and twigs in their hair, leaving them even more flushed and muddled.

And now it was to happen. Sam felt how damp his palms were and he wiped them off nervously on his trousers. Frodo had now folded his shirt and laid it down on top of the brown trousers. The braces were also off and soon joined the other clothes in the little heap on the ground, where Frodo was sitting just an arm's length away with his back turned against Sam. The wind ruffled the dark, almost black hair over his, in the moonlight, bone-white neck, and he sat there silent for a while with his hands clasped in his lap, waiting patiently. Sam swallowed hard when he saw Frodo sitting there, still on his knees, naked, as if he had been totally unaware of his friend's presence. Sam started to feel warm in his clothes, despite of the cold winds, and his breathing felt ragged in his throat, gaze and mind locked on Frodo's slender body that seemed to radiate a warmth that made his skin prickle and burn with want. He would beg to touch him, give anything to let his hand slide up that back and follow the contours of his spine and ribs, to let his tongue caress those delicate nipples, that flat belly and the inside of that wet, sweet mouth and those thighs. If this was a dream, than he did not want to wake up and face they day, for everything he saw would be colourless and dull comparing to this… this tiny bit light that lit up all those dark and hidden corners of his heart and made him part of it.

Sam let his eyes follow the soft shape of his bottom, down his thighs that shivered a bit because of the chill; so beautiful he was without clothes and the highborn, proper attitude they brought out. This was Frodo without the layers of shame and insecurity that sometimes threatened to defeat him, silence his laughter and weaken his will.

_Have you ever let anyone see what I see now? Do you carry such trust in me, me dear, showing me a side of you that no one has seen before? Perhaps a side of you that you don't even show yourself?_

They were sitting in a small grove, hidden by the wide trees and pines of Lothlorien, on the brink of a little lake, where they had decided to go bathing a few nights ago. The water lay silent and under the surface, on the bottom, gleamed the little white pebbles like fallen stars, thrown in by someone in the beginning of days for luck and good wishes. Frodo's hands had now started to move along his limbs to try warming his body. And then he turned his head to the side and looked at Sam, who had still not said a word. 

"Aren't you going to start soon, Sam?" he asked impatiently. Sam beheld the master of Bag End, sitting on his knees on the ground, naked, exposed, and Sam suddenly felt a vast urge to protect him from the shadows and the wind, and so he reached for Frodo, who turned around and took his hand. His eyes were as brought out of the darkest depth of the sea, so infinitely blue and beautiful were they and Sam felt the blood boiling in his veins and how something beyond control grew in his belly.

"Now, don't be scared," he said and Frodo smiled at him. Then he stroke Sam's cheek with his fingertips, sending little jolts down his belly and groin, and he had to restrain himself from laying Frodo down on his back and have him there right at once.

"Scared? No, I'm not scared, Sam. Anxious, maybe…" Sam slid his hand down Frodo's waist and buttock. Frodo yelped, but did not jerk back from his cold touch, and laughed.

"You're a tease, Mr Gamgee," Frodo exclaimed. 

"Oh no, dear, only when I've got me hands on you."

And then he leaned closer and pressed his lips to Frodo's, affirmative at first, but then he felt Frodo's tongue massage his own, and he moaned involuntarily into Frodo's mouth. His lips were so soft that Sam almost lost himself in their taste, and the tongue that slid across his teeth and nuzzled the inside of his mouth was sweeter than all the berries he had ever tasted, Sam thought swiftly. Cold and wind now driven from both of their bodies; Frodo continued to cover Sam's face with light kisses, wet with saliva and kept moving closer to him so that he almost ended up sitting in Sam's trouser-clad lap.

"Oh, Frodo…" he gasped, his arms still around Frodo's waist. 

"Samwise, take your trousers off," Frodo panted, "I don't want to sit here and be the only one without clothes on." 

Sam smiled and touched Frodo's soft skin everywhere he could get to until Frodo had to bite his lip to not cry out loud. He licked his nipple, made Frodo moan and squirm in his lap, and let his hand slide down to the part of Frodo's body that was not so soft anymore.

"Expectant, are we?" he whispered, voice full of held back want and desire. 

But Frodo had already began undoing his trousers, which suddenly seemed almost painfully tight when he felt his fingers work the buttons until they gave in, one by one, and Sam pulled Frodo in for a kiss to try repressing that feeling in his chest that would simply not yield for anything of this world. The one that both scared and excited him, made his heart and body explode over and over again until there was nothing but bliss and joy left.

Sam kicked his trousers off in one, swift move and proceed with the unbuttoning of his shirt, and then he laid Frodo down on his back among the ferns and dead leaves, that stuck in his locks and would be impossible to get out in the morning, something he knew out of experience. And suddenly they both stopped moving, as if they had heard nearby footsteps in the tall grass that surrounded the grove, or just been caught by the solemnity of the moment. Frodo was breathing in short puffs, and his hand on Sam's shoulder moved up towards his hair and neck. Sam looked down on the hobbit lying under him, looked down on his chest, his nipples, belly and hips, and felt the need to cry. His sight became blurry when he watched all this beauty laid bare before him, for this was beauty for his fingers, his eyes and lips. It was a body allowed for him to kiss and love if he only wanted, and oh, he _wanted_, and it was too much for him to grasp. It could not be true, he could not believe it. 

His entire life had he carried the burden of being a mediocrity, someone who did not deserve more than the soil he worked and the clothes he wore. But he tried every spring to create something flourishing, something sweet and beautiful, to silence his thoughts and straighten his back, and he had been as devastated as every year when the fall and winter froze it, killed it and took it from him. He then wished for something that would last, something that would linger and stay with him, even how cold and dark the world became.

"Sam?" Frodo looked anxiously at him and braided his fingers in Sam's golden hair to protect it from the wind's merciless strength. He had always wanted to touch it, to feel if it was as fine as it looked. In the summers, when the sun set high in the sky, it shone and glittered like pure gold in the daylight.

"Nothing, love." And then he lay down between Frodo's legs, in his arms, with his head against his warm, soft chest, and Frodo held him there. And so he wept for all he had come to know. 

~


	3. Chapter 3

~

_Go through ashes, walk the divided path between hatred and evil. The changes are lost before your eyes; you see them as rings on the surface of water when you should seek them in the mountains, for they are the silent voices of the tribes that are no longer. Go through water and clean your soul, let the water wash your black clothes and your hair, grey from the heavy years. Clean your body and dream of the age that has not yet come to pass. And dream of what you were, what you loved and chose to protect with your arms as lances; as shields of armour-plate. _

He stepped up onto the cold, wet rock; balanced his weight on it and swayed for a second until he found hold with his other foot on a nearby rock. The rapid rush of water around his feet was almost hypnotic, and he found himself listening to it, as if it had been a friend's assuring voice instead of just little droplets gathering. The cold water numbed his feet and fought out all else from his troubled mind. He balanced in the air with his arms stretched out at his sides and stumbled on over the wet, slippery rocks; his eyes fixed on the water that would surely become his shallow grave if he slipped.

Lost his grip.  
Fell.

_No_, he thought, _that would be too easy_. And even then, he would not find any peace; only become a white rock on the bottom that shimmered and glittered, a victim of the dark silence that mastered the river. _And what then?_

The morning crept slowly over the forest, and soon he could almost notice a change in the air, and the mist that fell over the treetops did not seem quite as grey anymore. The daybreak was pale and dim, but Sam welcomed it in his awakening mind, and he shivered when he saw the dark bottom of the river that had almost seemed alluring earlier, before the new light of day.

He looked down on his hands gripping the night gown to keep it from dragging in the water. In the faint light of morning they looked old; worked. Sam sighed and started examining his nails and the lines in his palms. They felt fragile; nothing like in his young days when he could dig until he got blistered and had still not felt even remotely tired or weak. When he closed his hands to fists, the contours of the thin bones and veins stood out against his white skin, and he noticed that he was shaking. He was ageing, simply stated, nothing more and nothing less. But sometimes, only a few random occasions now and then, he felt his former strength well up inside of him. He tried to save and keep it, for who knew when the day he needed it the most would come? When all other lights would go out, he would remain. And he would walk the narrow paths, the trampled roads and the lonely moors until he found night. 

It was also in the morning light that he saw his reflection in the water that lay still for the first time since autumn, and he bent down to get a closer look at his furrowed face and tousled curls. Sam grimaced when he saw the mirrored image of his face in the water. He really looked terrible. He had become dried up, tired and his hazel brown eyes had lost the gleam they once occupied when he had still been able to catch the fancy of a certain fellow hobbit. The curls had been blonde, he remembered, something that was highly unusual for adult hobbits in the Shire in those days, and he assumed that that was why some still held him in regard as a child among elders.

Frodo had loved combing it in the late evenings. He owned a little silver comb and a pair of scissors belonging to it, and a few times a month he had trimmed Sam's curls as a peacock buffs its mate's feathers, and even though Sam hardly needed it as often as a few times a month, he did not mention it. Sam would sit in front of the fireplace with a mirror at his feet, propped up on a pillow, and Frodo on his knees behind him. And the he would feel the tickling closeness of Frodo's fingers when they ran the comb through his hair; carefully not to cause any pain. Soft as butterfly wings were they, as fluttering lashes against sensitive skin, and Sam closed his eyes to savour the feeling. It had been the most intimate event they shared, save the obvious of course, and though it never led to more than kisses and embraces, it was just as erotic as the act of full lovemaking.

He kneeled in the water, let go of his night gown and let the flowing water rinse the mud off. It was what he missed most of all. The intimacy. He let his hand slide above the water surface as if it had been made out of glass; the chill drove all the way into the very bones of his chest and he suddenly felt so hopeless. Where was that intimacy of his now? In old shirts and linens smelling of mothballs and dust? In memories that would soon be gone, a few of them forgotten about already? Sam felt heavy in his body as he rested his weight on his knees that went almost numb in the cold water. Winter was still conquering in the landscape, even if the lakes and rivers stood free from ice, but he could feel it in his stiff limbs as when an oracle forecasts the future.

_I miss him so_, he whispered to himself, and he saw his lips' reflection move in the water when his mouth shaped the words. 

~

Sam opened the door slowly to keep it from making any kind of disturbing noise, and tiptoed breathlessly into the bedroom. In his hand he held a candle, which he put down cautiously on top of the cupboard. It spread a faint light in the room, but it was strong enough to make Sam able to discern the white figure that lay there. Between the sheets. 

He hurried his steps over the floor towards the bed, carefully lifted the thick coverlet and crept down in the snug warmth. He could feel the warm, soft part of Frodo's body next to him that was not covered by the gown and he slid his hand up Frodo's naked thigh, over his back and his smooth bottom. Frodo stirred, his movements still lazy and somewhat uncontrolled from slumber, sought Sam's hand that was lying in the little crevice where his thigh and hip distinguished, and squeezed it to let him know that he was awake. 

"Sam?" Sam moved closer and kissed Frodo's ear; his hair damp from the warmth his dreams had created, and Sam stroke back a black curl from his face with easy hand. 

The dream had been untroubled at first, but then the shadows had grown deeper before his eyes, and his legs had been forced forward by a power stronger than his own will. He had been twisting in his sweaty sheets for hours; seeking a warm hand without finding one, and he could even feel now, when awake and with a warm body next to him, how his heart beat with frenzy in his thin chest. He let Sam's hands cradle him, touch him wherever he pleased to erase the trails of the dream that still seemed to long in his mind, and Frodo snuggled Sam's arms and chest. To gather safety. A bit of comfort.

"Hmm?" He whispered hoarsely and his warm breath made the skin on Frodo's arms and neck prick, and he pressed teasingly against Sam's front, which produced a low moan back in his lover's throat.

"Don't do that," he said and followed the line of Frodo's neck with the tip of his tongue, "You know what it does to me." 

Sam's hands embraced Frodo's chest and started working the little, white buttons that came undone, one after one until he could finally feel Frodo's hot, bare skin underneath his fingertips. They slid upwards, found his nipples and Frodo gasped for breath and pushed backwards against the growing bulge pressing at his back and bottom when he felt Sam's fingers teasing the hard, sensitive nipples.

And then there was a rustling sound of clothes behind him; Sam pulled his trousers and linens down over his hips and groin, and Frodo could feel the soft line of Sam's naked belly and member through the thin fabric of his shirt. He wanted to touch it, feel the warmth in his hands and see Sam's face when it contorted with the pleasure only he could give him, so Frodo turned so that they were lying face to face and he put his arms around Sam's waist and pressed closer to him.

"Oh, Frodo, love…." Sam moaned when he felt Frodo's hand encircle him and fondle his arousing member while the other one stroke his thigh and buttock. 

He was so hot, so fine and perfect in his dark frame of curls that stuck to his damp forehead as if he had walked through the Shire in a rainstorm and had bothered with neither hat nor hood, and he was more beautiful than ever in his tousled state, or maybe it was the state Sam was in that made him come to think of it. His wet, pale skin glowed in the candle's faint light, and Sam kissed the soft curve at the base of his neck and felt it rumble as Frodo moaned. Sam could also feel the empty hollow between his index and little finger; it had felt odd at first, but he had gotten used to it as time passed and since it did not seem to bother Frodo, he had completely forgotten about it. 

It was in darkness they had got to know the needs of each other's bodies, and they both found it strange if they suddenly were to include the appearance of those bodies into the act itself. It was more about feelings, about heat and pleasure; something that gladdened Sam who always insisted on keeping their engagement under the cloths of nightfall, since he well desired Frodo's skin but did not feel as sufficient in his own. 

Frodo's hand swiftly worked Sam's leaking tip and he matched the pulsing rhythm and pulled Frodo in for a deep kiss to taste his lips. They seldom spoke during the act, mainly because they could never produce more than moans and a few, incoherent sentences, but also because they did not need it. The words were in their flesh, their blood and bones; a language as old as time itself, and none of them had ever experienced anything like it. It was as if when one discovers a book of tales, long forgotten about in a dusty corner of the world, and therein finds a whole life's work of poetry, song and story that puts reality to a frightful shame. 

He brought his hands between Frodo's legs and caressed his swollen sac, and then wandered even further down to the hot, narrow cleft where he let his fingertips slowly nip the edges of the entry. Frodo moaned out loud and spread his legs wide; _Right there_. The inside of his mouth was wet and his tongue quivered expectantly as Sam's hands continued their quest along Frodo's body. 

"Sam!"

Sam pressed one finger in, gently at first, but when Frodo responded his gesture by pushing back against his hand and finger, he let a second one in and brought it in and out of Frodo's body; Effortless. Unrestrained. He looked at Frodo where he lay next to him; his eyelids half shut and with the dark blue eyes burning behind the lashes. He was always amazed by Frodo's ability to change his appearance, from the noble master with roots in the family of elders to this…. This creature who held such trust, such a complete understanding in him that made Sam leave all his other thoughts behind when he came to him in the midst of night. 

The bed creaked when he pulled his fingers out, lifted Frodo and brought his member to his opening with the aid of his shaking hand. He panted, his chest heaved with quickening pace and the beat of his heart seemed to pulsate in every limb of his body. Frodo nodded, as to answer an unspoken question, and Sam sank down in the tight heat surrounding him, creating a pressure in his belly and he panted at Frodo's exposed neck. Frodo bit his lower lip, grasped Sam's arm and let his muscles relax while the feeling of being penetrated rushed through his body and left him bare before Sam's eyes, the brown colour of which had deepened to almost black. 

He moved now. Faster and faster did the rhythm flow and Frodo followed it as easily as if it had been brought from his own heart, and glorious were the sounds Sam made in his wet mouth when Frodo covered his lips with kisses. Sam could feel the tight, heavy feeling in his belly when he moved, rapid, quick and easy, and he knew that he was close. _So close_. And so he went deeper, harder, until Frodo clasped his shaking hands over Sam's broad back and sank his teeth down in the soft flesh of his shoulder when Sam reached that spot, that sanctuary inside of him, and it was pure beauty, happiness and joy. The bed creaked again, moved a few millimetres back and forth over the floor and slammed against the southern wall when Sam thrust into him, over and over, as a hammer hits a nail. 

A nail made out of flesh and red blood, of Frodo's pain and silence. A nail that cut his sorrow, his grief and brought him back to life in that second of climax, and he saw light even though his eyes were shut. In reality, he did not wish to give in for a power so strong that it took him farther away than anything; far enough for him to no longer recognise himself or his friend. But it was such an amazing feeling to be emptied of all the strength and energy he could muster, and in the same time be filled with his partner's warm seed that he soon collapsed in Sam's waiting arms, panting and moaning devoutly; he was spent, loved, part of a play so intimate that it remained nameless. 

They lay there for a while, listening to each other's recovering breath, half awake, half asleep. It was on the borders of sleep that all lines, all differences were erased and everything that distinguished them as individuals vanished. The bed rocked under them, and they fell asleep peacefully, unruffled until the face of morning approached. 

~

But then there was some kind of noise, and he looked over to the opposite brink of the river. There, behind a couple of tree trunks, a light glimmered, and there was a sound of voices far off. Sam slowly stood up; the water ran down his legs and feet and he tried desperately to wring out the icy water of his night gown to not slowly freeze to death if he was to walk even further into the forest. He stepped yet again, upon a rock and started wading towards the brink where he had seen the creature sitting some time ago. The wet shirt clung to his legs when he tried to lift it to make it easier for himself, it twisted around his ankles in such a way that he almost fell headlong down in the cold stream.

But finally, he reached the brink, where he also stopped. The grass was almost green here, and there was not as much snow as it had been on the other side. The grass was soft under his feet, which he found odd since the morning dew had created a thin veil of ice on the lid of the well the night before when Sam was to go out and fetch some water, and surely it would have been enough to freeze both grass and flowers to ice. He walked a little bit back and forth; nipped the grass with his toes and felt it tickle his sole. When he for a moment looked into the not so dark forest any longer, he noticed that the bark of the trees was a slight tone of grey instead of brown and the slim trunks stood tightly packed, as a huge, grey wall seizing its trespassers, and he suddenly felt very, very tiny in the midst of it all. 

A dull sigh went through the forest, and the faint sound of voices was heard once again, although closer this time. Sam walked over the soft grass and lifted a pair of branches to enter the forest, which seemed almost involuntary to let him pass. Cold, sticky cobweb stuck in his hair and face and he grimaced and wiped it from his brow in a disgusted gesture. He had come to hate spiders immensely, and did not even appreciate the useful work they did in the gardens anymore. Sometimes he even thought of gathering all the spiders he could find in a basket and crush them with a rock to Kingdom Come, but he never found the strength or a basket large enough.

The day awoke little by little and the light became stronger in just a few minutes, but not even the slightest hint of sun was visible above his head; only a light grey, coated sludge of morning clouds.

He finally reached a little glade surrounded by trees and made his way towards the boulder placed in the centre. His legs ached, his feet felt like they had walked on broken glass and a fever pulsated in his head with remarkable power. Sam sat down on the big moss clad boulder and tried to fill his panting lungs with air in the dense forest, and found it just as strained as before. It was like a weight on his chest when he breathed and he put his spinning head in his hands to calm down for a bit.

_This is your last journey in life. You know it, for you carry neither pack nor provision. And you sit upon the rock, clad in white like one of the fair folk, but when you lift your gaze it does not reach the sky. You have become numb, my friend, and you will not listen any longer. You have clipped your wings and cut your feet, in the name of a belief, as strong as life itself, that the sea is but a mirror of the sky and nothing beyond that. The sun dwells on the bottom of the sea, as a ball of fire, and brings light to your black shape when you break the surface, and you suddenly stop to listen. Fear is upon you. You can hear the fell beast approaching._

There was something about, he noticed while resting his weary legs. Little, snapping noises among the tree trunks, creating a strange but fascinating melody, hard to ignore and calling for attention. He had heard it before, he remembered, but it was different now. The forest now echoed with his loneliness since there was no one left to share it with. Was he selfish to wish for company in his late hours? He wondered. Perhaps he was doomed to eternal solitude? _The world has been saved, but not for my sake._ He recognised those words, but never had they resonated so harshly in his empty head as they did now. For the world _had_ been saved, but still he wandered around as in the shadow of the grand fire, half naked in the forest through the night, searching for the treasure he had once sacrificed. And if the solace did come, maybe it was all for the best. And maybe then he would requite what had been stolen from him that windy day when he had tasted salt on his own lips.

A branch split behind him and he got up from his sitting position and swiftly turned around. The voices were now closing in on him and he could se the light of a burning torch ten somewhat metres from the little grove. Sam looked around after a place to hide, but the only thing that could provide at least some shelter was the mossy boulder. He was just about to crouch down when he suddenly seized, as when a frightened deer is spotted by the hunter. He knew those voices.

"Oi!" Three men emerged from behind the trunks, and Sam drew backwards. In the light of dawn they looked very much like wraiths in their dark cloaks and hoods. He felt nauseous when he witnessed their slow walk among the trees, rocks and branches, searching for him. 

"Oi! Who walks there?" they called out and stepped closer to Sam through the fog.   
  
Even though one of them was holding the torch high above their heads, Sam could not see their faces. The forest was sleepy and cold, and the grass bowed soundlessly under the heavy weight of the strangers' feet. Sam said nothing. He looked up at the torch, the burning fire that crackled when the moist air drew pass. The men halted, only a few metres from the boulder, and pulled back their hoods. 

"I said who walks there? Show yourself!"

Sam took a deep breath and stepped into their field of vision. He had looked terrible before his stroll through the forest, and he assumed that his appearance must look even more hideous now. He looked down on his night gown, covered with dirt and soil, his wet and cold hands and his mud stained feet. 

The man raised the torch and almost dropped it when he saw the dirty creature standing there in front of him. He took a couple of steps forward and squinted to discern his discovery in the mist.

"Sam Gamgee?" he exclaimed, and he had a hard time believing what his own eyes showed him, judging by the tone of his voice. 

Sam met the man's gaze calmly and controlled, and straightened his posture. He was not dead yet, and still had an ounce of pride left in his worn body, and he let that show. The three men recoiled and started to whisper in low, rugged voiced, which made Sam feel uneasy at heart. He was very tired, and the shivering had returned to his fingers that were shaking frantically and looked more like bent and crooked twigs where they lay folded over his belly.

The men's voices silenced and they stared at Sam; their expressions bitter and awkward, and their looks full of dismay and contempt. The man holding the torch let his gaze wander from Sam's feet, all the way up his body and face, where it stopped.

"You're trespassing private land," he glared and added mockingly, "Mr Gamgee."  
  
While the man was speaking, the other two huddled in the background like bairns to their mother, looking nervous, almost scared.

"The woods are for everyone to walk about in, as far as I know."

"Not at five o'clock in the morning it isn't."

The torch flickered, and Sam's courage sank to ground level. The wet coldness of the grass seemed to pierce through his leather skin, made the hairs on his arms stand upwards, and he crossed his arms over his chest to keep them from shaking. The men scowled and exchanged knowing glances that pierced the air like arrows and bore their way into Sam's heart and brain.   
  
"Where am I, then?" he asked faintly; an admission of his own inferiority that the grey clad man consumed like a starved predator.

"Near Bywater, these woods lead directly to the great pool. Is that the one you're looking for?" He taunted and turned to his friends with a scornful smile on his lips, "Though I think you ought to find a rock if that's where you're heading. You look a tad too thin to reach the bottom all by yourself."

They laughed briskly at the coarse joke, and the white clouds of their breaths only added to the increasing morning mist. Sam swallowed hard and cleared his throat. 

"I must get back to Hobbiton, I – " Sam began.

"Maybe you should've thought about that before you started strutting around in nothing but that girdle of yours, lad," the oldest of them interrupted.

Sam took a step towards them, and they drew back in defence. "I only need a little pony. I need to get back. I'm asking for your help, Sir."

The men stood in silence. They were all older than Sam, but had something frightfully infant to the way they acted and spoke. Sam looked desperately at them, he was freezing terribly and he feared that his feet would become paralysed if he was to stand a few more hours out in the cold. They had already begun to turn into an unflattering shade of blue, his toes were somewhat swollen and he could no longer feel much of the ground underneath him.

"Please, can't you help me?" Sam croaked and cursed his own pitiful appearance. When had he come to be so little? So full of nonsense and ridicule? He was the master of Bag End, walked on floors made of the finest of wood and slept in a bed of feathers and downs, for Eru's sake! He knew that Bilbo would never settle with the derision Sam was put through. Nor would Frodo. 

Sam vaguely recognised the oldest of the three men; Roddy Willow, a simple farmer with more children than what he could possibly want. He was old now, and his wife had fallen ill after giving birth to a scrawny little boy, who had not stopped crying for a second since he had left his mother's arms. He was overwhelmed with fatigue and fear and Sam saw it in his eyes. It had been early morning when Alf Noakes had knocked on his door, out of breath, and told him that he had seen a ghost in the forest when he was outside chopping wood. They sat out along with Falco Twofoot and had expected to see an elf, a troll or a fairy hide from the grime light of their torch – but never a cold and dirty Samwise Gamgee with mud all the way up to his knees.

The man with the torch inspected Sam again and his eyes fell to Sam's feet under the long night gown. And then he stepped close to Sam; so close that his breath fretted in Sam's face, and he could see the farmer's black, tattered teeth in his mouth when he spoke. 

"I should leave you here, Gamgee lad. Have you sat on a rock and rot away until your old Gaffer leaves his hole to go look for you himself."

Sam's eyes ached, and bitter tears began to well up and burn his tired eyelids. He lowered his gaze again to not give the man the pleasure of seeing him cry his heart out, although it probably did not matter, he thought. _So I have finally gone mad then. For it is I who walk without shoes, and not he._

"But I won't."

The man's voice grew deeper, calmer, and full of sympathy. 

"I've got a pony in my stable. Tiny and bony he is, my daughter rides him to the market now and then, but I won't think you'd make such a difference. But hurry up! We've already been out long enough, and we're tired of running around after fools like yourself." 

The three began walking down the road where they had come from, and Sam stumbled after them as fast as he could gather and mumbled a few words of thank while trying to keep up with them. The darkness that lingered in the deep forest closed around him, and for the first time it scared him deeply. The fire of the torch lit his face up like the sun once had, and he staggered on after the men. And then, he looked back, and found only the shadow of trees in the early mist. No light, no silver. No golden treasure. 

~

May came running down the garden path in her red skirt the second Hamson jumped down from the wagon, and she practically threw herself in his arms and almost knocked him to the ground. It had been snowing the entire morning since Hamson had rose from his bed to take a bath; great, big flakes fell from the alarmingly grey sky and made the wagons even harder to master on the icy roads than usually.

"Da! Ham is here!" she cried in her shrill voice. May sometimes forgotten that she already was a hobbit fit for marriage, with children of her own in her hole, two of whom were brought along on the trip, and she cheered and chuckled as if she had been a child with no sense of propriety or manners.

Hamson laughed and swung her around in his arms, which produced some high shrieks from her. He had not seen her in many years, for she lived by the Brandywine River with her family, and he was surprised how big she looked. Not big in physics, though her pregnancies had made her a little big around the hips, but her greatness was in her ways and movements. She had been blessed with a noble stance, a highborn head and a back straight as an arrow, and she was so _beautiful_ with her rosy cheeks that matched her red dress.

"Take it easy now, I've rode a long way!" he laughed and embraced her again. May leaned closer and whispered:

"Presents, Ham?"

He looked around suspiciously, and his gaze fell on the driver who snorted and sat off again down the road, and then he nodded. Her brown eyes widened and she put her finger over her lips.

"Not a word, I promise!"   
  
And then she started pulling at his sleeve, and followed him up the garden path that led up to the little round door where the lanterns cast a faint light on either side of the entrance. It was still early, though the ride out to Bag Shot Row had taken longer a-time than what he had thought it would, and second breakfast was now in preparation. This was his home; small, but cosy and warm in the winters. Many things had been said about the Gamgees, but when a holiday approached, they always put their mind to good food and fine ale, and they were not stingy with it either. Hamson could smell the food all the way out to the garden path, and it continued along the road, creating a special festive aroma down the entire row. 

But Bag End lay in silence; the curtains were pulled across and no smoke rose from the chimney.

He hesitated for a second and let his eyes linger; he wished for nothing else than to see some kind of proof of life behind the dirty curtains, but May started to grow impatient and pulled violently at his sleeves. They had already been dawdling long enough, and the rest of the family was waiting.

Hamson had been greeted by an unusually alert Orgulas in the early morning, who bode him a farewell and a happy return. And he had also, much to Hamsons surprise, taken care of the issue of carriage with one of the drivers, and so Hamson could set off earlier than he had expected. Never mind that the driver had been perfectly impossible to have a conversation with, or that he had an amazing ability to find all the bigger and deeper holes in the road, causing Hamson to cling to his seat for the love of his dear life. He was here now, and that was all that mattered. 

He stepped inside and took a deep breath. The air was full of different scents; sweet potato pie, porridge, jam and fried eggs, and everywhere stood large bowls and serving dishes toppled with pies and cakes, and all the delicious desserts imaginable. The different scents almost went to his head, his stomach rumbled low and his mouth watered by the sight of all that food. His sisters ran about the tables with their hands full of various plates, cups and mugs, and their skirts flapped around their legs when they ran in and out of the kitchen where Bell commanded them with soup ladle in hand, and the girls ran as if the had fire chasing them.   
  
"Hamson!" It was their old gaffer who caught sight of him first, and he rose from his chair, not far from the door, with the aid of his cane and embraced Hamson standing on the threshold, "Good to see you!" His arthritis had not bothered him as much lately, and he could even walk about, or even outside the hole for a smoke or two now and then, though he rather enjoyed sitting in front of the fire with a blanket draped over his knees and a pipe between his lips. He looked old now, Hamson thought, but not too old to be totally uncounted for. The old gaffer still had something tremendously elevated about him, much of it just for show, but something that could come to flare when time was right.

"Hi, Da," Hamson responded and let May take his coat and little hat. He felt, strangely enough, insecure in the old hole where he had spent his childhood; everything seemed just the same in one way, and completely different in another. There was something missing. He was just about to ask where the blond boy with the round face was at, when he saw his father's strict face, and he kept his mouth shut. He had almost forgotten that there were forces in this world stronger than the will of his own, which his father's eyes now reminded him of.

Much sorrow had passed through the round door, and nothing of it really left the atmosphere. The walls bore stains impossible to remove or wash off. He had not been home for Yule in a very long time; he had loved his mother's cooking, the presents and the stories by the fire as a child, but nothing of that old joy or content chose to appear now. His father staggered back to his rocking chair placed in front of the sparkling fire, and a shiver went through Hamson's body when the old rocking chair suddenly creaked and rocked back and forth upon the floor. If it had not been for the familiar scent of cinnamon and apple, and May's smile when she walked pass him into the kitchen, he had turned at the door and run back all the way to town. 

~

He tore the cloth to rags in his hands and the buttons scattered around him and landed on the floor like pebbles on a dark river bottom. The anger flew in his veins, he cursed the world and everything it inhabited, and sank down on the hallway floor without even closing the door behind him. The snow drew in through the open door, over the floor and made the thick curtains rustle. He wanted, but could not move, and therefor remained sitting crouching by the door, shaking with cold and rage. Sam could hear the pony outside neigh twice; he had tied her to a small tree behind the tool shed for shelter, but it did not seem to make any difference, for the pony neighed a third and a forth time before Sam could muster enough energy to close the door. 

His ankles ached so badly; they were swollen and bore an almost purple tone. He could not get to his feet, so all that was left to do was crawl to the bedroom on his knees and elbows. When he finally fell over the threshold, he lay down his head and did not move. 

In his dreams, he was once again powerful. Brave, loving. Strong, with a young and beautiful hand. The nails shimmered white against his tanned skin, and in his hand he held a sword. It was solid and sharp, but light as a feather and decorated with little, green jewels to emphasise its power and beauty. He swung it in the air and cut off the threads of reality that kept him connected to the world that humiliated him, tormented him. Spat in his face and stepped on his feet. Spoke ill of the only person who had laid his hand on his chest and said, _Feel here, feel the world_. But he was strong tonight; they feared him and his golden sword that cut the cold dark of night. Cut their throats in the morning.

Sam awoke, but he did not open his eyes. He could feel the superior darkness surrounding him, and he kept himself concentrated on breathing as still and silent as possible. _If they think I'm still asleep, they won't get me when I wake up_. The curtains were still draped across the windows and refused to let the morning inside. It had been snowing all the way from Bywater to Hobbiton, and the pony had kicked him off twice when he had let go of the reins. The mud reached his inner thighs and the water dripped from his hair onto the floor in a little puddle. 

Sam lay there and just listened, but there were no sounds to be heard. No creaking, no invisible steps, no choked cries. Only silence and peace.

He rose to a sitting position on the floor with the support of his elbow. His arms, legs and his head ached so badly that there was no room for other thoughts. Before him stood a blurry vision of his bed, and he stood up slowly to keep himself from tripping. Only shreds and tatters were left of his night gown, and he carefully lifted it over his bruised shoulders and threw it away in a dark corner with as much force he could gather. He then stuttered across the floor and soon found the soft linens of his bed, and he pretended for a moment that he was touching something else. Something that brought warmth and unknowing sleep. Sam lay the pillow on his belly, drew the covers over his body and fell asleep with the comforting weight on his chest. 

A swift, knocking sound brought him mercilessly from his dreams once again, and he cocked his tousled head up out of the heap of covers, pillows and sheets and grunted. The knocking seemed to come from the main entrance, and he promptly (or, well, as promptly as he could) draped the cover over his shoulders and sat up. Sleep was still in his eyes, and he rubbed them with the back of his hand to clear both mind and body from the unpleasant dreams. The knocking did not seize, only grew more intense, and Sam sighed with a troubled heart.

"I'm coming, I'm coming…." He stood up on shaky legs and made his way down the hallway, towards the big, green door that miraculously enough was shut and locked. The hall was cold and unpleasant, but small rays of light broke through the curtains and fell onto the floor. The door seemed to shake from the continuous knockings and Sam crept suspiciously on his toes over the hallway floor to the entrance door, and turned the knob.

Marigold was just about to kick the door in (Girls can be amazingly persistent when they mean to be, if you did not know that already) when a clicking sound was heard, and the door opened a few inches. She could see the faint glimpse of a blonde head in the narrow opening, and she strained to get a better view. 

"Sam?" She whispered through the opening, "Sam, is that you?"

He breathed the cool morning air blended with her breath smelling of cinnamon and milk. He smiled; she had just had Yule breakfast and forgotten to bring a bunch of herbs to disguise her breath with.

"Mari?"  
The little gap in the door widened, and she could see his red-edged, tired eyes staring back at her. She was standing in the puddle of water that always gathered in front of the door, and the snow whirled around her. Her hair was not braided, but it was washed and lay combed behind her leave-shaped ears. She was clad in a blue dress with a white ribbon tied around her waist, and she had clothed her arms and shoulders with a white shawl to protect them from the winds and the snow. He smiled at her, but her eyes looked at him with pity and empathy, and she turned her head anxiously to the side, as if she tried to console a crying child. Sam's smile faltered. 

"What are you doing here?" he muttered under his breath, "Besides gawking at the mad Gamgee?"

She looked baffled, "It's Yule, Sam, we're having dinner any minute now."

"And so?" he said and coughed. He was sick and tired, and he could just barely keep himself standing up, "I've got else to do."

"But… Ham's come all the way from – " Mari pleaded. 

"Did Da send you?" 

She bit her lower lip and looked at him with a furrowed brow. How had he come to be so destructive, so confused? For it was nothing else she saw in that face of his; the scarlet-edged eyes, the sloppy cheeks and the dark eyebrows gathering as heavy rain clouds predicting a storm. 

"No one sent me, I came by my own will." She said slowly, insulted by her brother's tone and words. 

Sam sighed and cast his glance to his feet, thinking of what kind of excuse he needed to use. 

"Now, that was nice of you, Mari. But I'm not coming with you, I'm tired."

He took a step backwards to close the door, but she put her foot in between and her hand on the knob. 

"I'm standing in a water puddle, Sam, would you just look at my dress…?" She made a gesture downwards, "My feet are wet, aren't you going to ask me in to dry by the fire?" 

He hesitated. A wind caught her hair and she tightened her grasp around the shawl that covered her upper body. She looked cold, and her shoulders shivered under her long hair that swept about her face.   
Sam sighed, but then he opened the door and Mari stepped over the threshold, into the dark hallway.   
  
And when he shut the door behind her, it was as if someone had rolled a rock in front of the entrance of her grave and buried her alive. 

~


End file.
